


her mother's garden

by uglygods



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Adapting to Survive, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Found Family, Like they always do, M/M, Main Character needs therapy, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Canon, Reincarnation, Shadow Travel (Percy Jackson), The Gods Fucked Up, War, World War II, but don't we all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglygods/pseuds/uglygods
Summary: Second lives aren’t always the safest, Marha learned that the hard way. A war is coming. A Great War, the second one, fought by both demigods and men. Now comes the big question: what do you do when your world is falling apart around you, and it’s all your Godly father’s fault? She isn’t so sure, yet. (SI/OC)
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 16





	1. a new life

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)
> 
> Another fanfiction, oops! Hope to see some returning readers from my other PJO reincarnation fic, Mortals and Divine Intervention. These two stories couldn’t be any more different.
> 
> If I write this correctly, we’ll see Marha as she does things the only way she knows how — adapting to fit any situation she finds herself in. She’s not a fighter, she’s a survivor.
> 
> Marha speaks mainly Ukrainian and Russian in this story. The only time I’ll not be using English for these languages is if she’s reading something. I only speak English and Spanish, so I’m sorry if Google translate messes anything up. I’ve never been to Russia or Ukraine, so also sorry if I mess anything up in that aspect too. 
> 
> This does deal a lot with Nazis and such, mainly the work labor camps. Please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable. I’ll never write any actual antisemitism, only mentioned. WWII is messy.
> 
> If I get anything wrong, please correct me nicely.

Dani Martin never considered herself to be a good person. Sure, she gave to the needy and never killed anyone, or something like that, but there was a lot of bad things she did. Like stealing the drunk girl’s wallet, though, if she was going to get that plastered at the local pub, she did deserve it.

So, even if she wasn’t the best person, no way did she deserve this.

Her eyes narrowed onto the gun, hands up like that alone would stop the bullet from piercing her body, “I told you, man, I don’t have anything.”

The mugger, a man, probably around her older brother’s age, shook his head like that was shoving the lies away. “No, no,” his fingers tightened around the gun — his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a distinct smell of stale alcohol and B.O. Jesus.

“I swear,” she reached for her pocket, just to show her wallet was empty, but the loud sound of a gun being fired stopped her. 

For a brief second, she thought he had missed. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage and alarms were ringing in her head. Then, her reality was shattered.

A startled cry left her lips as she felt her knees cripple below her, body falling in such a way that caused her head to knock against the concrete. There was a fiery pain in her chest, right around her heart, and she felt the warmth of what must have been her own blood that poured out the wound and around her body.

If the mugger was even phased by the shooting, he didn’t show it. Instead, he crouched down beside her, checking her pockets for any goods. He stole her wallet, which would have made her laugh, for all it had was her driver’s license and that drunk girl’s credit card, then her phone, and finally ripped her bag off of her shoulders, which had her laptop for school.

Then he left. He left her. 

“N-N —” She started coughing, feeling a liquid dribble past her lips, tasting the copper, and she cried. Even when the sobbing hurt her chest and her lungs and her throat, she continued, begging for someone, anyone, to find her dying body.

It was a week later that her frozen corpse was found by a homeless man.

Marharytka Barukovich wasn’t Danielle Martin. Or, she was, but she wasn’t at the same time. 

She didn’t remember much about her birth. There was pain, coldness, warmth, then the soft voice of a woman speaking in a language she didn’t understand. 

Life continued. She wasn’t sure if she remembered that either, or how she knew things she shouldn’t have. 

She was three when she first felt present in her own body. Like someone had shoved something out and forced her in, even when she was fine with her existence of seeing someone else control her body (was it even her’s?)

She stared at her father’s — step-father’s — telephone in the office she wasn’t allowed to enter. It was black and reminded her of a ram, with its horns being the two ends of the phone. Marharytka frowned. Why was he using such an old phone?

Her eyes moved to the calendar. Her stomach dropped.

15 Март 1934.

Fifteenth of something, 1934. She was in the past, and in a non-English speaking country, with a language she didn’t know how to read. Her chubby legs wobbled, then she fell flat on her butt. She stared. She stared some more. Then, when the truth finally settled in, she began to wail.

There was the sound of a door creaking open behind her, then the walking of shoes, and she was picked up off of the wooden floor. It was a male, her step-father, who was glaring at her like she was a rat eating his food. 

“Lida!” He called, speaking a language she knew yet didn’t recognize, “Your child —” he said the word with such venom she felt a stab of panic, scared that he discovered her secret, “was in my office again!”

The woman who she assumed to be Lida entered from the kitchen, apron over her dress. Lida smiled at her, then at her husband, though it was strained. “Dimitri, I thought you were going to start locking it?”

“To hell with a lock!” He practically shoved Marharytka into who she assumed to be her mama’s arms, “You are lucky I love you enough to not leave.” 

When the man had left the house, her mama sniffed, though still wore a house-wife smile. She sat her down on the dining room table, “You know those Russians, love, strong tempers.” She spoke in a different language this time. She cooed at the sound — like this language brought her more join than the other. What was this language? Was the other Russian? How did she know Russian?

Marharytka nodded like she understood. So Dimitri was Russian and they were not? What were they, then? 

Her life continued on from there. She lived with her mama, step-father, and her step-brother, Leonid, who was three years older than her. His mama, Dimitri’s first wife, had died during childbirth. Marharytka had once tried to ask where her father was, but her poor mama became teary-eyed and she never got an answer.

She knew what she had to do. They expected her to act like a child, so she would. If Danielle— Marharytka wanted to survive, she had to adapt, and adapt she did. She relished in living like a small child, attached to her mother’s side and allowing her to partake in adventures. She hadn’t yet reached an age where people expected more from her, and she wasn’t ready for it to change.

But she would handle it. There were worse things than the gender stereotypes of her current time.

Then came the time everything changed.

The day started out perfectly, at least perfectly for Marharytka. Leonid had a fever last night, so he didn’t have to attend school, but by the next morning his fever was gone and he was as right as rain.

“Come, Mar,” her step-brother had beckoned her before she had even eaten breakfast, a grin on his childish face as his dark hair made small curls on his forehead. She grinned back, agreeing to follow him to the back yard. 

Through her year being present, she had found a lot — her mama was born in Verenchanka, a place in Ukraine, her step-father from Petrograd, which is in Russia. Currently, she was in Moscow, Russia, where her family lives. 

Leonid held her small hand, leading her out into her mama’s garden. There were several flowers, her mama’s pride and joy: tulips, sunflowers, chamomiles, and a whole patch of daisies. After her name, since Marharytka meant daisy in Ukraine. She was named after her mama’s favorite flower. 

“Look,” he moved so he was kneeling in a patch of dirt, then, with gentle fingers, he moved a few sunflowers. 

She gasped, getting on her knees beside Leonid, “Kitty!”

He laughed, “Yes, Marha, kitties!”

There, sleeping in a ball of fluff, was three newborn Russian Blue kittens, their eyes still closed. A mama cat eyed the two with lazy eyes, licking a stripe across one of her baby’s backs. When Marharytka reached out to pet her, she hissed, but didn’t protest when her fingers brushed against the top of her head. It didn’t take long for her to begin to purr. 

“I always wanted a kitten.”

Leonid nodded, his eyes sparkled in happiness, “I know, now we’ve got four!” He nudged her with his elbow, “Go find your mama, she’ll let us keep them, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I hope so,” Marharytka stood, ignoring the dirt staining the knees of her stocking, and hurried into the house. She could hear him saying soft words to the feline family when she shut the door behind her. 

She made quick movement into the kitchen, where she expected her mama to be, making her honey cake, which was a favorite in the household. Instead, she found the kitchen empty, with a cake pan in the oven. 

Then, the sound of voices, a man and a woman — her mama, but not Dimitri. A frown came to her face, who was she speaking with? Uncle Oleksander was still in Ukraine, and she knew of no other male relatives. Maybe their neighbor, Igor, but her mama would never let him in without her step-father. 

Marharytka stepped lightly, looking over the corner into the sitting room. There she saw her mother, a streak of flour across her cheek, and the back of a man. He had black hair, falling like a curtain to his shoulders, and was dressed in some of the finest clothing she had ever bare witness to. 

Then, her mother’s sparkling blue-eyes landed on her, and her face turned into one of surprise, “Marharytka!”

The man turned too, though she paid him little attention. She looked up into the kind face of Lida, the woman who had given her everything, and for the first time noticed something foreign. Fear. Her mama was afraid. 

It caused an awful feeling to curl up in her stomach.

Her mama motioned towards the man — staring at her with an intense expression, her skin erupted in goosebumps. Why was he so pale? He looked to be whiter than the clouds themselves. And… was she mistaken, or was his eyes red? “Marha, meet your father.”

And at once, her world came crashing down.


	2. in the cold

Marharytka eyed her father.

She decided she looked nothing like the man, with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Her skin wasn’t nearly as pale, either, and his face seemed to be carved from stone, made with sharp lines and harshness. She still had childhood chubbiness, plus everyone always told her she looked just like her mother.

His eyes were black now. She furrowed her brows, where they not red a second before? Maybe it was the light. Nobody had red eyes. 

Her father stood tall, seemingly almost seven-foot, and the shadows swarmed around him. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like him.

“Marha, don’t stare, it’s rude,” her mother said, in her gentle yet scolding tone. 

It caused Marharytka to sober up, so she smiled, and stuck out a hand, “Hello, sir, I’m Marharytka Barukovich.” Was there a proper way to greet your supposed father? She wasn’t quite sure.

He didn’t shake her hand, he didn’t even respond. Instead, he just stared at her like he couldn’t believe his eyes, so she made a face at him. He looked rather surprised.

Good, that’d teach him not to ogle at her.

“Mama,” she turned back to her real parent, “Leo and I found kittens in the garden! Can we keep them? Please! Please!”

Her mama gave the man an aghast look, “How — ?”

“Russian Blue, thought it was fitting.” His voice was deep and scratchy, like he’d gone years without a sip of water. “To make up for it.”

Marharytka watched as her mama’s wide eyes narrowed, “You should leave, Hades,” what kind of name was that?

“Yet you’re keeping the kittens.”

They kept the kittens. And the mama cat. She had fun picking names for all of them. The mama is Koshka, or just cat, since they were already calling her that. And her three babies were named Solntse, Luna, and Zvezda, which meant sun, moon, and star. 

Life continued on like always. Dimitri was disgruntled to find new four family members, but didn’t make them leave, and soon found himself favoriting Koshka. She was a very lovely cat. 

The day after her fifth birthday that a new member was added to the family — a baby girl, born screaming in the early morning. Marharytka thought she was beautiful, even if she did look like a red lumpy potato.

Her baby sister was named Sonyashnyk, the Ukrainian word for sunflower, but was mainly called Sonya.

“Sonyashnyk is a mouthful,” Leonid told her a month after the baby was born. They were sat on the rug in his bedroom, playing makebelieve. She was a princess locked in a tower and he was the brave knight set to rescue her, but only as friends. “Like Marharytka. So we call you Marha and Sonya instead.”

“And Leo.”

“But Leonid isn’t a mouthful.”

“We still call you Leo.”

He gave a playful roll of his eyes and sat criss-cross on the carpet. Zvezda, who was smaller than the rest of her cat siblings, came bouncing out from under the bed. She curled up on his lap and purred as he scratched down her back. 

Marharytka moved so she was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. They stayed like that a long time, nothing but the purring and their soft breathing filled the air. It was comfortable, since baby Sonya was taking a nap and not crying. Crying Sonya was the worst.

She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep. But she was stood in what seemed like a small clearing, surrounded by different buildings. Her toes curled against the biting snow, which felt so… real, like she was physically stood there.

Two feet ahead of her was three people. One seemed to be a boy, tall and lanky, stood beside a kneeling figure. His hair was shaved a while ago, now with dark patches growing back like a hedgehog. He shivered in the cold, dressed in nothing but a light shirt and what seemed to be pajama pants. He had shoes, some old boots, which seemed to be falling apart. 

Beside him knelled a girl, she assumed, though her hair was also shoved with small blonde hairs growing back like the boy. Instead of a shirt and pants, she was dressed in a mud-caked flannel dress, and her bare feet were blue from the cold. 

And, in the blonde’s arms, laid a small girl, no older than eight or nine. Her face was pale, eyes opened but an unseeing-blue. In the middle of her chest was a splatter of red, staining her white nighty. She, too, had a shaved head, though her hair was a light brown. He was lifeless. Dead.

Marharytka could hear nothing but the harsh blowing of the freezing wind, causing her shoulder-length hair to flutter around her. But then, as her eyes widened in horror, chunks began to fly away, lost in the wind that took farther and farther and farther, until she could barely manage a glance of blonde in the distance. 

The cold hit her scalp, now bare, and caused a shocked cry to fall from her lips. A flutter of snowflakes surrounded the group of children, and she watched, fear creeping up her throat, as they transformed into something she recognized.

It was the day her mother and Dimitri brought Sonya home. Marharyta had her cradled in her arms, kneeling on the hardwood floors of their sitting room, with Leonid at her side, standing beside his two sisters. But instead of the warmth of their house, there was nothing but the bitter cold of wherever they were. 

“Bring her back!” It was the other version of her, flickering between her five-year-old body and the one she saw moments before, as baby Sonya changed from a baby to a dead child. The girl spoke a language she wasn’t aware she knew. “Father, bring her back!”

Smoke filled the landscape as a man appeared, standing before her. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The word was spinning, spinning, spinning. 

“Marha, dinner time,”

The spinning slowed. She felt like she was emerged from having her head forced underwater, eyes peeling open to see the tired face of her mama above her. 

“There you are, love,” Lida helped her off of the ground, “have a nice nap?”

No, she wanted to say, but instead, she threw up on Leonid’s nice rug.


End file.
